


Forever

by Liathwen



Series: A Game Called Murder [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Death, Drug Use, Emotional pain, F/M, Sad Ending, Suicide, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 22:41:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1582040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liathwen/pseuds/Liathwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate ending to How to Play a Game Called Murder, takes place after chapter 48 of that fic.</p>
<p>Sorry for this. Really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forever

“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes. We did all we could.”

The doctor’s words echoed through Sherlock’s otherwise empty mind.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes.”

The man didn’t know the meaning of the word.

Sherlock did.

He had so many things to be sorry for.

He let his feet guide him to the familiar flat. He knew that Mycroft had warned John it was a danger night. That Sherlock would be tempted to find some way, any way, to ease his pain.

For once, he agreed.

As he removed the leg from the desk and looked down into the hollowed out core of it, where he kept some emergency help, he couldn’t help but think that she would disapprove.

But it didn’t matter now. She was gone. He was careless, thoughtless and cruel and it cost her everything. It cost **_him_** everything.

All the hopes and dreams that had surfaced in the few months she’d been his constant companion. The nights lying awake, listening to her soft, steady breathing, and hoping, praying that it would be always be that way.

He took the hated substance with him into the bedroom, their bedroom, and snuggled down into the bed, not even bothering to take off his shoes.

He was certain that the sheets still smelled of her, even though it had been days since she’d last occupied her space next to him. Her soft body pressed against his, sated and glowing with post-coital bliss. Her tiny hands tangling languidly in his dark curls.

His arms ached to hold her. To wrap her tiny frame in his embrace and protect her from all harm.

But he’d failed her.

He’d let his insecurities get the better of him and drove her away. Drove her away from his protection and to her death.

He’d never be rid of the guilt.

Sherlock eyed the bag in his hands.

Or perhaps, he would be rid of it.

He sat up, and with shaking fingers, he reached under his bed, searching for the lighter. He found it, but his fingers also closed on a worn book. He pulled both out.

He shed his jacket, throwing it indiscriminately across the room. Unbuttoning, one cuff, he rolled up his sleeve. His veins had always been easy to find. It wouldn’t take much.

Sherlock looked down at the book, then flipped to her favorite passage, the one about undying love that was creased so many times it was hardly readable.

Funny how appropriate it was now.

Even though she was gone, he still loved her. He’d never stop. But he couldn’t live without her. He wasn’t strong enough.

He prepared the solution by memory, his mind anywhere but on the drug in his hands. His eyes skimmed the words of the book, held open with his foot, over and over.

He made it too strong.

Sherlock’s eyes flitted around the room, taking in everything that reminded him of her. Her clothes strewn about, little knick-knacks from her flat that had migrated from the upstairs room to his bedroom. The sleeping cat, tucked into a pile of her clothes.

It was odd for Toby to be in Sherlock’s room. The detective’s eyes watered as the thought crossed his mind that Toby was missing his mistress as well.

Sherlock prepared his arm and flexed a few times, making the vein stand out. He inserted the needle, but paused for a second before depressing the plunger.

“Molly,” he whispered. “Molly, I’m sorry, my love.”

The rush of the drug through his veins was euphoric. His logical mind slipped away and left nothing but base urges.

He felt light, as if he was floating, and his mind once again turned to Molly. She was sitting next to him now, her small body taking up hardly any room on the bed.

He reached for her, but she turned away.

“Please, Molly, please don’t be mad at me,” he pleaded. “I’m sorry, so sorry. I wasn’t strong enough for you, my love. I was foolish and selfish and I let you down. Please, please forgive me.”

He waited, and was rewarded by the turn of her body towards his. She didn’t speak, and somewhere deep in the repressed part of his brain, Sherlock knew it was because he couldn’t conjure a good enough impression of her gorgeous, soft voice.

Instead, she merely reached for him, soothing the beginnings of the shaking. Sweat broke out on his forehead and his breathing quickened.

He’d always known that cocaine would kill him if a case didn’t. Funny how in the end, it was his choice, not the slip of a habitual user.

“Molly.” He needed to get it out, here at the end. Needed to see her face when he said it, even though it wasn’t really her. She was real enough and that was all that mattered.

“Molly,” he choked, the rapid beating of his heart causing the blood to pound in his ears. His temperature continued to rise. Idly, he hoped that it was cerebral hemorrhaging that took him out. It was fitting considering the coldness of his mind was what led them to this place. If he had listened to his long ignored heart, instead of his reason, they might have been happy.

Happy. He was happy with Molly. For one bright, shining moment in his dark, joyless life, he had been happy. Sherlock wished he knew if she had been happy as well.

The petite woman next to him nodded, beaming happily.

Sherlock’s heart clenched as he took in the smile on his beloved little pathologist’s face.

It was close. Close to the end now. It was truly now or never.

“Molly, I love you. I’ve always loved you. I will always love you,” he paused. “Forever.”

\-----------------------------

It was John who found him. Just minutes too late.

It was Mary who pulled him into her embrace when he finally broke down and sobbed.

It was Mycroft who realized it wasn’t a mistake and stared numbly at a photo of Sherlock and Molly for hours before crying for the first time in years.

It was Lestrade who filed the reports, a dull ache in his stomach as he remembered all the times he’d said less than kind things to the detective.

It was Mrs. Hudson who cried for days over the loss of her pseudo-son and his sweet little love.

It was Mr. and Mrs. Holmes who stoically ignored the whirlwind of press camped outside their home, wanting their opinion on their son’s apparent suicide over the death of a woman.

It was Molly who was buried next to the man she’d loved so unconditionally and given her life to protect.

It was Sherlock who was finally with the woman he loved more than life itself.


End file.
